My interest in Absurdist literature and Albert Camus led me to email the blogger Robin Bates, author of the blog BetterLivingThroughBeowulf.Com, and ask him about these subjects. Below is his reply:

Albert Camus was a superstar during his life, in part because he summed up intellectuals’ distress over a world

which old certainties seemed to be vanishing away

when religious belief was on the decline

after a second world war

now with an atom bomb

Existentialism has some connection with the theater of the absurd. If there is no god, the reasoning went, then our lives have no ultimate meaning and our lives are absurd. As put by some: We are just a chemical reaction that occurred on a small pebbling hurling through the vast reaches of interstellar space, and an encounter with a large enough meteor would put an end to everything in a moment. Existentialism was a response to that bleak view of the world.

It’s always useful for me to remember that existentialism has the word “existence” at its core–it’s a philosophy that directly addresses existence questions, such as

why are we here?

where did we come from?

why do we die?

what is the meaning of our suffering, etc?

If there is no meaning to life, then it shouldn’t matter if Meursault shoots the Arab in The Stranger. In The Plague, such a sickness causes us all to question the meaning of life. Is there meaning in pushing a rock up a hill over and over, given that this could be a metaphorical expression of many of our lives.

Existentialists traced their thinking back to a number of others, including

The hard-boiled detective novels of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler have been described as existential, with the private eyes seeking to solve sordid crimes, even though the world won’t be that much of a better place even if they are successful. “You’re just a grubby little man in a grubby little world,” one villain tells the detective in Murder My Sweet. In The Maltese Falcon, when pushed to defend why he does what he does, Sam Spade replies, “When you’re partner dies, you’re supposed to do something about it.” It didn’t matter that his partner was a sleaze.

And that gets at one of the existential answers, one that existential authors like Ernest Hemingway also arrived at. If there’s not greater meaning [in life], then you determine a meaning and then you dedicate your life to that meaning. Sisyphus’s life has meaning because he dedicates it to pushing the rock up the hill, even though from another vantage point it’s all absurd. In fact, certain existentialists saw a kind of heroism in dedicating efforts to something which might be absurd.

There’s not much heroism to Vladimir and Estragon waiting around for Godot (God?) in Samuel Beckett’s play–so there’s a thin line between absurdism and existentialism.

Now, there are Christian existentialists, with the apparent absence of God from the world requiring a leap of faith (Kierkegaard). Existentialism is often seen as a very individualist philosophy, which is why it has fallen out of favor with some. After all, as soon as you start talking about families and communities, individual searches can seem somewhat selfish and self-absorbed. But there’s no doubt that existentialism has had a major influence on world literature. A whole generation of young people looking for meaning saw Camus as their spiritual guide.

I just returned today from four days in Virginia. It is the first respite of more than one day from my little chicken farm and its unpretentious responsibilities. When I get away, I use the time to reflect on my concerns and put them in perspective. The short trip to Vienna (VA) provided plenty of metaphorical fodder for my symbolically oriented mind.

Wolf Trap, VA is an area named by early pioneers for the pursuit of the menacing wolves which were a constant threat to community livestock. The menace of wolves represents to me the menace of flood back at Sawmyl Synders Farm. A certain “Wolf Trap Farm” sat on the Difficulty Run tributary. Difficulty Run would surely describe, for me, the last three years of three floodings and recoveries. The Difficulty Run, in VA, flows along mildly, for a while, until it meets the treacherous rapids at a juncture with a larger flow…the Potomac. Potomac in Algonquin means “the place to which tribute is brought”.

Back at the farm, each time my hope was restored, my birds repopulated, and my buildings put back to near normal…I looked up to the heavens. The clouds ominously gathered. They inflated and then darkened. They came thundering down to exact tribute. This treacherous Difficulty Run tributary ends at Dranesville, VA. “Drainsville” is about where I am. I’m not quitting but I’m not going to tell you I’m hopeful either, that would be a trap. Prevailing over this difficulty will not look like anything I can imagine at this time. I’m still draining.

Flying: How do you make sure to be on time for your departure on commercial travel (airline flights, etc.) these days? What are your rituals, checklists, notes, and secret strategies? Talk about a time your flight prep wisdom failed you? Talk about a time your strategy saved you?

Jacob Wrestles with an Angel (Genesis 32:22-32) In this biblical story, Jacob wrestles with a man (thought to be an angel or God) and the angel does not prevail. Jacob will not release the angel until the angel blesses him. The angel’s blessing is to rename Jacob to Israel, meaning, roughly, to prevail.
We wrestle with mankind and heavenly spirits our entire lives.
Can you relate to a monumental life struggle in which you prevailed even though you didn’t technically win?
Upon reflection, do life’s most devastating struggles seem to be strategic challenges for growth or demonic curses meant to demoralize?
Have you had pointless struggles which did NOT benefit you later in life? If so, who do you blame?

Self-Authoring: You decide to write your autobiography. In your memory search, you discover that there is someone who contributed mightily to who you are today. You are out of contact with this person. You never said thank you. What can you do to thank a long-lost person who was instrumental in your development? What if they are gone?

Sisyphus: Albert Camus ~ The human condition is characterized by the probability of suffering and the certainty of death—a fate which human reason cannot accept as reasonable.
If Camus’ characterization is right, what can a human do to be able to accept his/her unreasonable fate?
If Camus’ is not accurate, how should his prophecy be re-written to become reasonable?

Dante’s Inferno: This 14th century epic poem puts flatterers in the Eighth Circle of Hell, and condemns them to “living in excrement”, among other things. Betrayers, on the other hand, are directed to the Ninth Circle of Hell, which features sinners being “encased in ice” – and that’s just for starters.
Aren’t you occasionally guilty of both flattery and betrayal? Did you consider these common human behaviors as sins or merely means to an end? Are you less guilty of flattery and betrayal today? Why or why not?

Better Living Through Beowulf: Chinua Achebe (from Things Fall Apart) ~ Okonkwo … strives to show no weakness. He wants to dispel his tainted legacy. Okonkwo works to build his wealth entirely on his own. He is also obsessed with his masculinity, and any slight compromise on this is swiftly destroyed. He has attained a position in his society for which he has striven all his life.
When has your striving for something brought you down? How can distancing oneself from their disavowed legacy become a liability?

Philosophy: Václav Havel ~ There are no exact guidelines. There are probably no guidelines at all. The only thing I can recommend is a sense of humor, an ability to see things in their ridiculous and absurd dimensions, to laugh at others and at ourselves, a sense of irony regarding everything that calls out for parody in this world.
Can a recommendation of perspective and distance be also a guideline to living in awareness?
Does an awareness of all the most dangerous kinds of vanity protect us from both others and ourselves?
Can a good mind and a modest certainty about the meaning of things in turn transform our innocence?
Is having a gratitude for the gift of life and the courage to take responsibility for it a result of:
• a vigilance of spirit or
• merely the result of the circuitous struggle with life and our own stubborn selves?

This Day in History: June 19, 1865 – Over two years after the Emancipation Proclamation, slaves in Galveston, Texas, United States, are finally informed of their freedom. The anniversary is still officially celebrated in Texas and 41 other contiguous states as Juneteenth.
What legal, social, or political restrictions are being resurrected in the U.S. or around this world?
When have you emancipated yourself from the restrictions imposed by feckless rule?

It was late. It was dark. We pulled into the driveway and something caught my eye. In the shadows, in the driveway next door, a tiny red dot betrayed dark figure. I opened the garage door and stepped cautiously from the truck. My wife took things from the cab and headed inside. I dropped the tailgate in order to remove the unwieldy cargo. The burning cigarette attached to a man’s mouth approached quickly.
“May I help?” puffed the cig.
“Gladly!” say I.
In a sec the mini-freezer gently met pavement, but with a groan.
“Thanks”, says a me, looking curiously at the grown man.
“I just had surgery on my arm. Ah, she hurts.”, puffed he.
“Lordy!”, I concorded. In this stranger’s efforts to help me, he may have hurt himself.
It turns out, this man was waiting for others to arrive. Upon our last words, several vehicles raced for the curb and piled out into street and marched toward the house of Puffy’s. The neighborly homeowner among them informed me that a friend of theirs, a young adult I surmised, had died suddenly (tragically?). This explanation served as a purpose for the gathering.
The next morning, the next-door driveway and the curbs were clear. Nothing to see here…but… What looked like a tall, rounded vase with a base sat solitary and distinctive near the attached garage. Filled with something which seemed to give it external texture, it was. Internal gravitas? But what was it? Remnants, but of what? A tribute, but to who? Ashes for Algernon? Butts!

As a child, I was well loved, but… One time, when I was a young boy, my old man (Dad), yelled at me, “You have the temperament of an old man.” Not knowing what temperament meant at that time, I didn’t have an immediate retort.

Dig if you will the picture, a local winery event with band and vendors and a Saturday family crowd. Two uninterested vino connoisseurs (NOT winos) seek out a spot far from the madding crowd. A place where they can share stories and observations which challenge veracity. There it is! A pergola covered courtyard opposite the banter and the band with the expansive winery buildings in between. With appropriate glass wear and beverage acquired, seats in a semi-sunny spot are selected and the games begin. But the skeptic in the pair somehow knew that serenity found would soon devolve into paradise lost.

Dream, if you can, a courtyard. First, there arrived a quiet lady with a glass who sat an appropriate distance. Next, they came, a romantic couple who chose a table as distant as possible. After them…the deluge. Prominent among them was the young fit couple with a baby carrier and a noisy gaggle of boys trailing off after those youths spotted a corner for creating mischief. This young couple, with expansive seating still available, sat European close to our perimeter table. So be it.

“Brunswick!”, thundered the parental scream. The startling break in the quiet almost bowled me out of my chair. It seems the fit couple dad had a fit because his boy baby (improbably named Brunswick) split out of sight with the soccer jocks. Slipping out of sight with this dad ran a foul of his rules. Ok, enough, nothing to see here. Settle back into to your conversation. But minutes, seemed like seconds, later…

“Brunswick!”, boomed the now familiar mezzo-frantico voice.

Maybe I’m just too demanding. My lofting impatience hitting the ceiling, I directed barely audible invectives at the near table – you know, the kind you hear in the background when you’re giving your monthly committee status report.

“What?”, yelled back the puzzled little Brunswick. I was puzzled, too. He was clearly visible this time through the glistening concertina wire, between the deep effluent filled roadside gutters and he looked to be escaping the several stray dogs playfully chasing the urchins.

Why do they scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doting parents care.

Memories of Youth: Talk about an achievement from your youth that seemed to have gone unnoticed then. That effort is still sitting proudly in your memory and holds as a reminder of who you were and what you can accomplish.

How does this past effort affect your present?

Today in Church History: Isidore the Farmer, was a Spanish farmworker known for his piety toward the poor and animals. He is the Catholic patron saint of the farmer. His feast day is celebrated on May 15. The story of St. Isidore is a reminder of the dignity of work, and that ordinary life can lead to holiness… St. Isidore’s life demonstrates that: If you have your spiritual self in order, your earthly commitments will fall into order also.

How is the work you do dignifying? In what ways is the life you live ordinary?
Is your spiritual self always an asset in your earthly commitments?

Don’t go away mad… Members in your family are mental. Friends in your friendship are fiendish. Characters in your corporation are corrupt. How do you survive inextricable relationships? Fix? Suffer? Abandon?

If I don’t allow you to choose any of the aforementioned three options, what is the best way to handle relationships conceived in hell and neglected by heaven?

Who Killed Cock Robin?… is a poem thought to originate in a Celtic myth. In that myth, the red sun of summer, a robin, is killed by an arrow shot by the god of winter, a sparrow. The image of birds is predominant because of the Celtic belief that souls became birds after death. For the sake of argument, assume the soul physical attributes.

How do you envision your soul as manifested in the following presentations:
Before conception? During life? After death?

Are you an ethics eagle or a foul falcon? Dashiell Hammett, author of The Maltese Falcon (1931), created the character Sam Spade. This fictional private investigator solved mysteries with hardboiled, sometimes illegal and often unethical methods, giving up lovers and friends. Hammett himself professioned also as a PI. He neither broke the law nor gave up sources (even spending time in prison) – The antithesis of Spade.

When have your personal ethics stunted your professional ambitions?
As a result, did you recalibrate your ethics or reevaluate your profession or simply temporarily ruminate on your ethical enigma?

Better Living Through Beowulf… St. Mary’s English Professor Robin Bates’ BLTB blog entry, Which Fictional Death Still Haunts You?, inquires as to your most enduring fictional fatality, be it book, movie, or play.

Do you have one?
If so, why do you think that fictional tragedy evoked such real pathos in you?
Did the writer draw you in? Did you have a relatable personal encounter?

Not a Joke: Police interview three people at a crime scene, a priest, a lawyer and the victim. The priest describes the crime in detail. The lawyer describes the crime in facts. The victim tells the truth. The ability to articulate requires one to concisely give the facts. The ability to express emotions allows one to tell the truth.

What is it about emotions which make them superior to facts when the truth is the pursuit?

This Day in History: May 15, 1941, Joe DiMaggio begins his “unbreakable” 56-game hitting streak. In 1967, Simon and Garfunkel’s song “Mrs. Robinson” featured the lyrics: Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Simon concluded that DiMaggio was the antithesis of both the authority-defying “hippie generation” and the hypocritical “older generation” of the 60’s.

Who would you consider the respectful and genuine role model of our age? Can you lyricize it?

Sunday, our house church watched a video titled Rain performed by American author and speaker Rob Bell. When it came time for group discussion and my turn to answer a question, I was like a deer in the headlights. But Monday morning, I sought solace for my aforementioned silence in the lyrics of Supertramp, hoping that inveterate English progressive art rock band (formed in 1969) could help me answer Rob Bell’s probing questions put forth in his video’s spiritual narrative. Singing true, I present some of Mr. Bell’s questions with answers parsed from the Supertramp’s lyrics to “It’s Raining Again” with my annotations as parentheticals:

Rob Bell

Supertramp

What are some of the storms in your life?

It’s raining again (memories of the 2016 Magnolia flood disaster…thought to be a Fluke)

Is it raining now?

Oh no, it’s raining again (Hi! Fluke II Harvey… recovery)

Do you think God intentionally puts us through trials?

And you know it’s hard to pretend (it IS a trial and it SEEMS intentional…a curse?)

Looking back, do you still feel the same?

Oh, will my heart ever mend (trauma waters run deep but eventually run out)

Have you ever felt like God failed to come through for you?

La, la, la, la, la, la, la

Do you ever act like everything is okay even when it isn’t?

You’re old enough some people say
To read the signs and walk away (acting okay is what we do)

Looking back, do you still feel the same?

It’s only time that heals the pain
And makes the sun come out again (when faith betrays – cliché!)

Take turns. You make three statements about yourself — two true and one untrue (c’mon, you can do it).

The rest of the group votes to try to identify the falsehood.

Repeat

Medium Well

From Peter Kreeft’s provocative Socrates Meets Jesus ~ Socrates: I did not only read the New Testament – I met a real person. The book was not the object of my experience, only the medium for it.

Can you explain the reality of medium creating the phenomenon of reality?

If we can find the people and things and faith we desire in a medium, what is the utility of reality?

When have you found nurture in a medium, be it book, song, movie, etc.?

Is it possible for medium to substantially fill the void of neglect?

Mean Genes

ZZ Packer – Drinking Coffee Elsewhere ~ When you’ve been made to feel bad for so long, you jump at the chance to do it to others.

(Are you) Encountering meanness from strangers?

(Are you) Inflicting meanness on strangers?

What is your first reaction to a “mean act”?

When you try to trace your own “mean genes”, where does it take you?

Insanity on Earth and in Heaven

Joseph Heller’s – Catch 22 ~ …any pilot requesting mental evaluation for insanity—hoping to be found not sane enough to fly and thereby escape dangerous missions— demonstrates his own sanity in creating the request and thus cannot be declared insane.

Have you voiced concerns to persons of authority — hoping for resolution — only to have yourself implicated or impugned?

In an organization, given a choice of laying low or speaking up, which one has proven to be a better long-term philosophy for you? Why?

Imagine the gods lost their divine minds and reverted to humans’ frail bureaucracy. Saints sent to hell because of a typo. Sinners manning the gate of heaven by fraudulent election. Faulty rulings being final unless the appeal included incentives. Deportations from the ether to the nether and vice versa, based on polling results.

In what ways is faith affected in substance when the errant hand of man touches its tenets?

Talk about the challenges of maintaining dutiful faith in man or country when traditional morals and ethics fall prey to prevailing expediency and low expectations.

Cowardice Lost

From Socrates’ Meno Dialog ~ Cowardice is failing to fear the right things and fearing things that should not be feared. Courage is therefore a form of knowledge.

When has healthy fear kept you from harm?

When has unwarranted fear kept you from safety?

First You Seer Her Then You SearHim

Would you talk about someone who had passed away but who was spiritually present differently than if that someone had simply gone away and was only physically absent?

Benign Cursing

A ruler in southern Nigeria, put a voodoo curse on anyone who abets illegal migration. At the same time, he revoked the curses (invoked by traffickers) that hold victims of human trafficking in fear and subjugation.

What forms of “voodoo” percolate in America’s hinterland of media distortion?

If you had the power to put a curse on someone, what would that curse be?

A bit of France off the coast of Canada. The islands of St. Pierre, Miquelon and Langlade are rich with anomalies, not the least being their status as France’s last foothold in North America. A hermit of Langlade off the coast of Miquelon island rich with mysteries, not the least being his status as Langlade’s last human inhabitant of this soon to be uninhabited island of France’s last foothold in North America. Not much is known of this individual, but with our application of creative non-fiction, let’s fill in the blanks.

Where to begin? The mouth hell, shall we? The waters between Miquelon (Michael) and Langlade (a corruption of “l’île à l’Anglais” or Englishman’s Island) are called Gueule d’Enfer (Mouth of Hell). More than 600 shipwrecks have been recorded in this point since 1800. Half-wild horses, the survivors of earlier ship wrecks, graze on the grassy hillocks. The accidental equine tourists or Langlade, are joined by the intentional residents – white-tailed deer, brought over from Canada in the 1950’s. These fully-wild forest cattle have proliferated in the thick brush and stunted spruce forests. I’ve described how the largest of the four-legged creature of Langlade arrived. How the bi-pedals? That’s where creative non-fiction comes in.

According to the 1999 census, Langlade Island was almost deserted. Only one inhabitant. Langlade’s sole year-round inhabitant being Charles Lafitte. That’s it. Census data is sparse and anecdotal info curt, but the imagination can inveigle what’s missing. We know how the birds and the bees and horses and the deer got here. How did Charles la light here? And wh why does he stay? Perhaps, he prefers the anonymity of the near permanent fog to the exposure to the madding crowd. Or, more likely, a woman put him here (if he were to explain).

Assuming old Charles is no horse whisperer, who does he talk to when no one is listening? Mr. Lafitte has dogs. Those dogs surely accompany him in all kinds of weather, whether it be meteorological, psychological, or philosophical. The gods didn’t burden canines with the curse of mood. When a man locks his wife and his dog in the trunk of his car, when he lets them out, he always knows which one will be glad to see him. What kind of dogs were they?

If it were me, because my own experience with dogs, they would be Turkish shepherds. I love the hilarity of dachshunds, but the eventuality of back issues and totality of their uselessness would prohibit them from being companions at my hermitage. The beauty and power of the German shepherd appeals greatly to my esthetic appetite, but in a starvation scenario I might appeal to those great big teeth she has. No, give the soft mouth and hard bark of an Anatolian mix. Enough Pyr (Great Pyrenees) in her takes the lion out of Anatolian. Or Akbash (white face) mix, cousin to the Anatolian (Karabash = black face). You can’t beat having two companions, one of which you always know will be there, the other you never know where she is. But, the most curious thing about Charles Lafitte is not his chance to be a hermit or his choice of canine companions, but his nickname.

The hermit Charles Lafitte, at some point, acquired the moniker “de Gaulle”. I doubt that this name stuck simply because he is French. I would have thought Napoleon would have better suited for a superficial and derisive reference. I guess having the first name Charles would be a good start towards the application of “de Gaulle”. Seems too easy. Maybe he had a big nose. Well, come on, a Frenchman with big nose…doesn’t that go with the territory? Possibly, it disparagingly likens Mr. Lafitte’s estrangement to man as a distant comparison to Charles de Gaulle’s government in exile as a resistance to the Nazi occupation of France in WWII. If Charles’ isolation was known to be connected to some criminal connection, I imagine he would be known as “Jean” Lafitte, you know, like the 19th century pirate. If a woman sent him to Langlade, I might call him Charles “Defeat”. If he was simply a mad man, how about “Chucky”.

I could go on, but interest is probably waning for you the reader and the morning sun is waxing for me.

P.S. Charles Lafitte passed away in July of 2006…just before the road on the isthmus between Miquelon and Langlade opened to traffic.

P.P.S. I researched Charles de Gaulle and was reminded that the french general led the government in EXILE against the Vichy Government. This explains Charles LaFitte’s nickname.

Last week, four blond, blue eyed, fare skinned people sat in the a medical clinic waiting room. One would guess these people were related based on the physical characteristics. I was one of them. Heck, I thought, we could have been related except… The other three, all children, took up all of the other chairs in the room. The youngest, a boy, sat sideways with feet on a second chair and a ballcap on a third. The oldest, a teen girl, sat on two chairs with a windbreaker on another and a purse on a fourth. The middle child, a gangly boy, laid across three chairs, his boat like shoes snaked through the armrest of a fourth and his handheld video game extending under the armrest of a fifth. It occurred to me, who raised these kids?

I heard the staff behind the window complaining loudly about these discourteous folks. I agreed but ignored it. Don’t meddle. The voices I heard were clearly meant to alert the rude guests to straighten up and act properly in public. Several times a clinician poked a head through the window and glared out. To no avail. I thought, they wantsomeone to be embarrassed.

Eventually, the female of the group stood, grabbed her stuff and walked through the patient entrance. The youngest boy hurriedly followed with his stuff and was whining about being left behind. The gangly boy, who was left behind, sensed the absence of his family at some point and went to the window to ask where his sister and brother went. I wondered, where are the parents?

The woman, confronted by the deserted boy, instead looked out the window at me, puzzled, and asked, “He’s not yours?”